


Customer Service

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Sex Shop, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27256405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Arthur goes in for something salty and comes out with something sweet. Also, a vibrator.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 56





	Customer Service

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like it on record that this is entirely Shadowcat's fault x3

He drove by twice before he got up the nerve to signal and turn in. The shop was tiny, sharing a building with what he could only assume was an apartment that had seen more than its fair share of drug deals. The whole thing, from the handwritten and inconsistently capitalized _Please Use side Entrance_ note taped on the front door to the overgrown parking area to the blacked-out water-spotted windows, was incredibly sketchy. Arthur sat squeezing the steering wheel for a good two minutes.

No one came (ye gods) and no one went. No sign of life whatsoever. The optimist in him, such as it was, remarked that they might be closed. He could see the hours of operation, however, and knew there would be no such luck. No external forces would conspire to prevent this; Fate was happy to let his own embarrassed ineptitude be his downfall.

He read the banner over the door, done in gaudy hot pink because of course it was. _MAGAZINES AND VIDEOS_ , it advertised. _VIBRATING TOYS_ , it continued. _EROTIC OILS_ , it promised. _KINK GEAR AND NOVELTY JOKES_ , it concluded.

Arthur stared and wondered what, exactly, made oil erotic. The actual chemical compound, or just the context? What if he had been walking by these oils in the grocery store all these years, never realizing their true potential? Was that—surely that wasn’t why they called it virgin olive oil.

 _That’s it._ He was a grown man. He was beyond this foolishness.

He opened his car door into a shaggy rose bush, climbed out with something similar to dignity, and made his way into the sex shop.

Behind the counter, a young man—alarmingly close to Arthur’s own age—looked up from his phone. A smile spread over the most handsome face Arthur had ever seen in real life as he tossed his phone down and said cordially, “Bonjour!”

Arthur froze, hand still on the door. What had he just gotten himself into? For all he knew this was a front for some sort of hush-hush French sex mafia, or a recruitment center for an _Eyes Wide Shut_ erotic mind control cult. He hadn’t seen that film in a while, but he remembered the American bloke being out of his depth and Arthur certainly was that right now. If a sex cult was going to strike, they’d do it when their victim was most vulnerable, wouldn’t they?

“Er.” Arthur glanced outside but couldn’t see any security cameras. “D’you speak English?”

The man behind the counter raised one of those finely arched eyebrows. “Yes.”

Arthur considered taking offense at the slow-paced mockery of the response but decided to pick his battles this afternoon. “Ah. That’s too bad. I mean—”

“Oh!” He wasn’t listening. He vanished behind the counter, then popped back up fixing a plastic name tag to his shirt. FRANCIS. “Sorry.” He curled his lips sensually round the words. “You found me undressed.”

It should’ve been illegal for someone so flirtatious to work in a place like this. Especially someone so goddamn gorgeous. What would he ever need to come in here for? As if he couldn’t smirk like that at anyone and have them in bed twenty minutes later? Even his facial hair was stylish, for God’s sake.

“So,” Francis said when it became apparent Arthur possessed no clever response, “the only rule we have is no recording. No picture or video. Okay?”

The accent was a lot thicker than Arthur originally thought. “Uh. Okay.”

“And if you want to see something out of box, bring it up and I will show.” Francis smiled again, the original customer service one. “Is there something you want particular?”

_Yes. No. I don’t know._

“Just browsing,” Arthur said, default defense, and bolted for the farthest corner of the store. An open doorway beckoned. Relieved to be out of Francis’s line of sight for the moment, Arthur ducked through.

And here were the promised magazines and videos. Stacks and racks of them. He’d never seen such a concentration of human skin in one room. How many nipples were in plain sight right now? Too many to count, even if he had cleared his whole afternoon for this endeavor. He did a lap of the little space and was shocked to find only one DVD featuring two men. Well, two men and no women. Was there no market? Or did gay men just have sense enough to get their porn online, for free?

 _Gay men._ Well, what was he supposed to say? _We?_

He couldn’t stay in this room for the rest of his life. And, now that he thought about it, he didn’t want to be trapped in here if someone else came in or if Francis got any ideas. He schooled his features and stepped out.

Immediate hard right: here were the jokes. Mugs shaped like breasts, crudely humorous greeting cards, phallic toothbrushes. Arthur tried to imagine the friends he’d have to make in order to purchase these items. Frat boys, perhaps. Douchey CEOs. Middle schoolers.

Perhaps Arthur’s problem was he’d been born into his seventies. An old soul, that’s what his mum always said when he proved to be more delicate than his brothers. Would they struggle with this place? Maybe Dylan. Scott and Liam wouldn’t, but Scott would never have to. He had a wife, for one thing, and no shame, for another. He’d probably chat up Francis about the economic trends of the sex industry, then flirt unabashedly and heterosexually, then make a so-called joke worse than anything the cards could come up with. Fucking fratty corporate child.

Arthur moved on. Here was the BDSM paraphernalia. Chains, leather, tails, cuffs. Nothing Arthur hadn’t heard of before, funny enough, but it was a lot different seeing it hanging so matter-of-factly on the wall. All the models on the packaging wore amiable smiles, when anyone in this gear online always looked . . . well. Worse for wear. But that was the appeal, really . . .

In his peripheral vision, Arthur caught Francis watching him. Arthur turned his back on the kink stuff. One thing at a time.

(And it wasn’t as if he had anyone to use those things on, anyway.)

Here, finally, was the main attraction. He’d done a good job ignoring the centrepiece of the room up to now. Shelves and shelves of plugs, dildos, and vibrators stretched out before him. He didn’t know where to begin. He’d done some research online, and had come close to just ordering something discreetly from the comfort of home, but it always came down to paranoia. What if it came and it was different? Bigger? Smaller? What if he couldn’t figure out how to use it? What if he wasted twenty dollars of shipping and handling to return the bloody thing?

Anyway. He was here. He would browse.

A surprising amount of European merchandise, not that centimeters were any more illuminating than inches. All he knew was he needed something with a flared base, the smaller the better. He wished they were clearly graded, even if that in itself would’ve been rather humiliating. _One beginner’s dildo, please._ All he wanted was the bunny slope of anal toys, was that so much to ask?

“Excusez-moi.”

Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin and only just managed to swallow his profanity.

Francis offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I just wonder, are you sure you don’t need help?”

Oh, the humanity.

Arthur could feel his ears burning, but it was either surrender now or keep bumbling. He put himself out of one misery and into a lesser one. “I just—don’t really know what a good starting point would be.”

Francis tilted his head to one side; a wavy blond strand fell just so over one eye. Definitely a signature move, for good reason. “Is this for anal play?”

What a question. How did the word sound so normal in his accent? This whole shop was like an alien planet. “Yeah,” he replied stiffly. “For someone who’s never done . . . anything like that before.”

Francis blinked. “Never? Anything?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Huh.” Francis looked him up and down fast enough Arthur almost didn’t notice, then shook his head to himself and turned to the shelves. “Well, depending on your budget . . . “ He tucked some hair behind his ear, then tapped the top of a few boxes. “These are all good. Small. Some like firmer, like this one . . . The softer rubber makes softer sound. Does noise matter?”

It took Arthur a moment to understand. “Oh. No. I live alone.”

Francis glanced at him sidelong. Not amused, as Arthur expected, but surprised. Curious.

“I didn’t,” Arthur found himself saying. “Up until recently. My, er, girlfriend. Lived with me.”

Francis raised both eyebrows.

“Ex,” Arthur amended. The heat was spreading down his collar. “Ex-girlfriend.”

They had not been a couple without conflict, but that last night with her had by far been the most explosive. _No, I don’t want to cuddle. I want you to fuck me like you did the night we met. Is that, like, an unreasonable request? What is the issue here, seriously? Did you age fifty years since then and I didn’t notice? Or are you too tired for me because you’re fucking somebody else?_

He’d pointed out that she needn’t be so rude. Not in so many words, granted, but that was the general gist. Then things had gotten grabby in a way he still wondered about some weeks later. If roles were reversed . . . But nothing had happened—nothing _could_ have, without medical intervention—and he didn’t feel like dragging her back into his life for that. The companionship part had been nice, though.

It was just a shame she wasn’t interested in railing him until his legs gave out.

Francis hummed thoughtfully. “You know what I think?”

Arthur fought the urge to put his hands in his pockets. “I can only imagine, at this point.”

Francis smiled. “I think it would be easy for you to decide if you try one.”

That could not be hygienic. “You don’t mean you’re going to _loan_ it—”

“No, no.” A chuckle. “I mean I will help you. Here.”

Arthur stared for several seconds.

Then he managed, “I’m going to leave. Now.”

Francis pouted. “I don’t want to scare you. Am I scary?”

Arthur regarded him. He was put together by a very skilled craftsman, but he wasn’t what Arthur would call muscular. He didn’t look stronger than Arthur. He actually didn’t look like the type Arthur assumed he would be into. He seemed too . . . pretty. But he was so eye-catching, so elegant, and so impossibly real at the same time. Maybe the stereotype of the rugged, broad-shouldered top was a misplaced one. His first, strictly ignored thought had been _Why would someone who looks like him want anything to do with someone who looks like me?_ But maybe that was more cliched thinking. He’d seen people online arguing about this, but was it really true? There were no rules?

Arthur pressed his lips thin, then asked, “What would you get out of it?”

To his shock, sympathy lit Francis’s eyes. “Your girlfriend was not very kind.”

This was getting far more personal than Arthur thought a trip to a sex shop was meant to be. “She was fine. The problem was me, really.”

Francis nodded slowly. “Did she say this?”

Arthur took a step back, toward the door. “Listen, I didn’t come here for counselling—”

Francis held up mollifying hands. “No. I am sorry. I need to stop doing this . . .”

“You what?” Arthur felt his brow furrow. “Is this just what you do? Is _that_ why you work here? To . . . pick up people?”

Blue eyes flew wide open. “No! I mean, I just—Bah.” He shook his head when his tongue tangled. “I want to help everyone. My therapist tells me to stop, but it’s hard.”

This effortless creature had a therapist, but Arthur didn’t? Maybe it was time to stop being so frugal. He wondered if purchasing a prostate massager counted as investing in himself. The fire had spread to his cheeks, but he was past the point of trying to hide his embarrassment. “I’d rather my first time with a man not be a charity lay, thanks.”

Francis put indignant hands on his hips. “It would not be charity. I don’t try to _sleep_ with _customers_! Just you! It’s not my fault you look so good even in that horrible sweater.”

Christ alive, he was sexy when he got angry.

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, what am I supposed to think? _Look_ at you. I’m surprised people aren’t queueing at the door just to ask you for coffee.”

Francis rolled his eyes, clearly pleased. “I prefer tea.”

Arthur grabbed one of the boxes.

The back room was a lot less nasty than he assumed it would be. No condom wrappers, no mysterious stains, not even an excess of dust. It was actually organized shelves, a lightly cluttered desk, and a swivel chair with a reclining back. Arthur knew it reclined because he was currently bent over it, knees on the seat and hands grasping the edge of the desk for dear life. 

“It is barely in,” Francis said, amused.

Arthur couldn’t find words. He had never been this hard in his life. And now he understood what that yearning was, that wordless impulse he’d felt since puberty. It wasn’t the need to pin someone down like he’d grown up assuming. It was a deep, intrinsic, unfathomable emptiness.

Now, finally, he was being filled.

“C’est bon?” Francis asked. He smoothed his free hand down to the small of Arthur’s back, easing out his shivers.

All he could do was nod. C’est very, very bon.

Afterward, when he’d wiped the chair clean to the best of his ability and apologized once again for being slow to the draw with the tissue, it occurred to Arthur to ask. “You’re not part of a mafia-stroke-sex cult, by any chance?”

Francis shook the vibrator until its battery dropped onto his palm. “Sorry, no. Why? Are you?”

“Er, no.” Arthur buckled his belt. His thoughts were remarkably clear. Astounding, that people bothered paying for yoga classes when you could buy one of these miraculous doodads for a one-time fee. “Uh. Thanks. For that.”

Francis polished the vibrator with a sanitizing wipe and didn’t look at him. “Don’t use harsh things for this, there is just no sink here. Soap and warm water is best.” He put it back into the box and walked out. “This will be seventy-five.”

Arthur could only follow. He took out his card but didn’t swipe it. “What’s that face for?”

“Nothing.” Francis put on a crumbly smile. “I helped. We had our fun. Now I will not see you again.”

Arthur couldn’t even enjoy holding the control, with that look in those blue eyes. “Well. You teach a man to fish . . .”

Francis’s brow lowered on his eyes. “But I did not teach you—”

“Right.” Arthur paid and slipped his card back into his wallet. “So you’ll have to keep giving lessons.”

It took a moment, but Francis smirked again. “Do you want them?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. He was not generally given to this sort of thing, but there were no cameras and no witnesses. This didn’t feel like real life, but maybe that was a good thing. If his girlfriend was based in reality, he’d gladly take a holiday. Before he could think better of it, he leaned across the counter, took hold of Francis’s shirt, and kissed him.

A lot bristlier than he was used to, but by the look on Francis’s face neither of them particularly minded.

“Give me your phone,” Francis said, already passing his over.

They exchanged numbers. Francis gave Arthur his purchase in a small black bag with an honest-to-God bow stuck to the side.

“It’s not meant to be a gift,” Arthur said, bemused.

“Non.” Francis leant against the counter, chin on his hands. “But you are.”

Arthur found this entirely intolerable, because this bastard knew full well how good he looked. He shook his head in plain disapproval, which only had the smirk widening. Arthur couldn’t leave without having the last word, of course, so he paused with a hand on the door.

“Let’s do dinner Saturday night,” he said. “Text me your address. I’ll wear another, ahem, _’orrible sweatair._ Just for you.”

Francis’s heavy eyelids lifted. “No, don’t—” 

Arthur shrugged. “If you don’t like it, you’ll have to take it off.” He lifted the bag a bit at his side. “Cheers.”

As the door closed behind him, he was pretty sure he saw Francis melt across the countertop.

Arthur hurried to his car, just in case a drug dealer happened to glance out their window and see how giddy he was. _Victory._ He had a lengthy list of things that needed doing, now that he was back on Earth. Still, he lingered a moment to enjoy the sweet musk of the roses.

  
  


_The End._


End file.
